The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 32

Home. 

Lucas laughed at the once inconceivable concept as he scampered through the back woods, branches parting on their own, leading to his backyard. To be home, finally. The budding excitement cemented into a smile when the house finally appeared. It had that warm, comforting aura that his mother had always promised it would. He stood for a chance to soak in the feeling. He could live in this house for a long time. No other home was more fitting than this. He darted over leaves, taking in the glowing white facade of his house. The large black paneled windows, the inviting lights reaching out to him from inside, feeling his legs stretch freely towards the back porch stairwell, his arms swinging in synchronized motion—home. He grabbed hold of the side-rail, skipped up a step or two, and peaked towards the sliding door. It was slightly open. The kitchen window was obscured by a red curtain pulled across the glass. In the city, his mother was a stickler for closing and locking doors. Maybe she was expecting him. He was overjoyed. He teemed with anticipation, envisioning the surprised look that was bound to erupt across her face as he walked in, forever changed; no longer the hopelessly defiant kid, now grown into the responsible young man she'd expected, the son she'd love more than ever. He'd prove it to her by scrubbing every crumb from every dish, taking out the trash twice even three times a day—however many times she asked. All the promises he had made while with Qulin, he'd keep them undoubtedly; protect her and never disappoint her ever again. Now he would be the son she could brag about while she sipped coffee with her lawyer friends instead of having to conjure up an excuse to leave the conversation because she struggled to find anything good to say. Things were going to be great, perfect.

The last porch step sighed under his foot, blissful in its participation in the impending reunion. He came up on the back deck, the plume of smoke from Qulin's house flickering in his periphery. In his arms and chest he could already sense the warming embrace of his mother's hug. He reached for the glass slider but something stopped him cold.

Crying, whimpering coming from inside—his mother's. A man's guttural scolding. Staggered footsteps walking from the sliding door resonated in a terrifying way. Uneven, stumbling steps—he pressed his ears to the opening, trying to make out words. Only slurred speech. He detected alcohol in the air. The joy he'd reveled in just moments ago disappeared, as he parted the curtain. His grandmother was lying in a heap on the hallway floor, sobbing, shaking uncontrollably—next to her—his mom. His chest heaved as his eyes registered who had caused this morbid scene—Dad, holding a gun, pointed at his mother's head.

The surrounding world faded away, his vision narrowed into a red vibrating tunnel fixated on his father. Any question on how he had found them was quickly crushed by images of his father striking his Mom, striking her and leaving her weeping in the hallway, dehumanizing her. The festering emotional and psychological damage that had stripped them of a normal life emerged in his chest; a rage no longer bearable but destined to be unleashed. He had to protect her. He promised. He clenched his fists.

The hammer of the gun cocked.

Lucas burst through the door barreling down the hallway. "Get away from her," he screamed. Startled, Cordell whirled around towards the sudden commotion squeezing the trigger, blindly.

Lucas fell limp, landing by Adrienne's feet. A red stain formed at the center of his shirt. Blood pooled on the floor forming a dark, grim chasm. He moaned, trying to speak, trying to apologize but only faint wisps of air fell from his rapidly paling lips.

Adrienne screamed and collected Lucas in her arms. His head listed sideways over her forearm.

"No, no, no," she waled, caressing his emotionless face.

Cordell staggered back, gathering himself for the moment pressing his palms across his lips, upon realizing who he'd shot he became suddenly sober.

"Wake up Lucas," Adrienne pleaded, shaking him as his eyes rolled off into some distant place. "Please don't leave me again."

"You bitch," Cordell waled, pacing quickly while tapping the nozzle of the gun against the top of his head. "You made me kill my son. You did this." He brought the gun down, and aimed it once more at Adrienne.

She kept her eyes fixed on Lucas's sunken face. His chest barely taking in air. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she groaned till the words became nothing more than dry and dying murmurs drifting over closed ears. She closed her eyes and lowered her head onto Lucas's face, awaiting the bullet and the subsequent blackout.

Two shot rung out. Followed by a loud thud.

Adrienne opened her eyes. Cordell laid face down on the floor, his bloodshot eyes opened glaring but empty. Two burgundy wounds in his chest. The pistol had tumbled gracefully by her foot. She kicked it away just as Sheriff Burke, along with his deputies, all with their guns drawn filed through the corridor. A deputy moved swiftly to Cordell, affirming he was dead.

"Are you okay?" Sheriff Burke said, kneeling beside Adrienne.

The words melted into a white noise. Adrienne shook, her mouth void of the ability to speak.

Sheriff Burke quickly realized the glaring answer to his question. Lucas was lying motionless in her arms. With no time for questions, though they arose like bombshells in his mind, he placed a finger against Lucas's neck.

"There's a pulse," he said, coolly, "its very faint but it's there."

Adrienne remained inert while her mother hysterically began calling for anyone, anybody to come and save her grandson.

Medics rushed in under a backdrop of flashing blue and red lights. They pried Lucas from Adrienne, tore open his shirt, and applied a thick gauze pressure bandage to the entry wound, and initiated chest compressions, inserted a intubation tube and quickly moved him to the stretcher.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Adrienne finally choked out, clasping on to Sheriff Burke's sleeve, looking at his tensed eyes. He faltered, that stoic silence conferring the worst. He turned to the medics and assisted pushing the stretcher out towards the ambulance.

Adrienne attempted to stand but her legs weren't ready to bear the tremendous load of sorrow. She crashed back against the wall, reaching for Lucas, grasping only air. Sherry hurried over, and held her trembling body against hers. Tears streamed down onto Adrienne's nestled head. Hot, burning tears, collecting in a puddle, leaving only questions in a seemingly bottomless rift dividing reality from acceptance. What had happened? Where had Lucas come from?

John came to their side after declining medical attention. A simple bruise to the forehead wouldn't prevent him from grieving with his family for what seemed like an interminable curse upon them. He hugged them and wept.

"Let me go," Adrienne suddenly howled, somehow finding what bit of strength remained, wrestled from their grip and staggered down the corridor. Familiar floral wall patterns had become foreign agents of ghastly needles and spears that dug at her hands as she stabilized herself against the wall. She pushed through the front door, the brisk smell of burning wood filled the air as she pursued the paramedics out to the porch, greeted by the bedlam of blue and red lights. Police cruisers lined up along Cowell Drive, surrounding her house with sirens blaring like a demented choir. She glanced indifferently at the burning pyre that was Mr. Moore's house, firefighters manning hoses and battling the inferno. An ironic laugh escaped her lips. Was this really happening? Had chaos chosen this one street, out of all the possible places, to come play its destructive game?

The paramedics loaded Lucas onto the waiting ambulance.

Dianna and Mitch had been watching from their porch.

"Is he dead?" Dianna choked out.

"I dunno," Mr. Huston said, gravely. "Let's go inside."